Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance by A.J. Downey

in a stuffy office for half an hour.
    Talk about a one horse town. In the thirty minutes or so that I had been waiting only one car passed by, and clearly from the make of the vehicle, it was passing through, no one living here drove an Audi.
    As I tightened the strap on my helmet, I heard the distinctive roar of an Indian motorcycle as it approached. The flat black paintjob on the Chief Dark Horse was impressive. The rider’s helmet was solid black, the visor sealing his identity. I was sure it was no one I knew, since the man’s black leather chaps and jacket bore no club insignia that I could see. He obviously belonged to no one, not a true biker, the Sunday afternoon type. I snorted as I climbed onto my bike and started her up.
    The lawyer’s office was located on the main floor of a refurbished 19th Century house, a few blocks south of Main Street. The plaque on the right side of the door read The Law Offices of George P.F. Fielding, and the hinges on the door creaked eerily like something out of a horror movie as I opened it and stepped inside. It smelled like a mix of Lavender and old books, rather nauseating actually. It reminded of a funeral home with its hushed atmosphere and piped in elevator music playing from somewhere deep in the belly of the building. The halls were painted a drab beige, the skirting, doors and moldings all stark white and yet the place still felt creepy and dungeon-esc. I shook the thought from my head and moved ahead along the hall to the reception desk.
    A sweet little old lady was waiting there to greet me with a bubbly inviting smile. With her reading glasses perched on her nose, she put down her nub of a pencil and folded her hands together resting them on her desk.
    “You must be Miss Romano, Mr. Fielding’s five o’clock,” she said, and pointed to two chairs along the far wall. “Take a seat dear, and I will let him know you’re here.”
    “Thanks,” I said, sitting and crossing my legs, allowing my dangling foot to wave restlessly.
    The creaky front door sounded even spookier from a distance away, as it opened and closed and I watched the receptionist hold her hand up and wave.
    “Mr. Holden, you’re late,” she cheerfully scolded. “He’s in his office waiting for you.”
    “Thanks, Miss Fitch,” I heard a male voice call out. There was a familiarity in that voice that sent a shiver up my spine, but from my vantage point I couldn’t see him, I could only hear a telephone chime and his footsteps as he ran up the wooden stairs.
    I thought maybe that voice belonged to someone from my past, a high school friend maybe, but I quickly forced the thought away. My past was exactly that, the past. There was no place in my world for my past to fit, my Uncle Ace had seen to that. It still astonished me that he had allowed me the freedom to make this trip without one of his boys latched at my side. Rarely did I get a moment to myself, let alone the liberty to ride across two states without a set of lackeys. What’s worse was what I would be returning to…my wedding day.
    “You can go on up, Miss Romano,” Miss Fitch said, startling me. “Top of the stairs, second door on the right, you can’t miss it.”
    “Thank you,” I said, making sure to give her my best smile.
    Stepping onto the top landing, I noted it looked like any other family home, all the doors closed, bar one. I could distinctly hear two male voices, one a touch more baritone than the other, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I stepped forward and the floor let out a tortured groan as the wood moved under my weight.
    “Come right in, Miss Romano,” the more baritone of the two called out.
    An older man dressed in dark blue jeans and a soft yellow golf shirt approached, taking my hand in his and shaking while the other held my elbow escorting me into the room, as if he was scared I’d run away. I tittered, my nerves getting the best of me as he stepped aside exposing the other occupant in the